


January 24th

by Yalu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1979-2015, Adorable, Angst, Birthday, Bobby was a second father to the boys, Canon Compliant, Dean and Charlie would be awesome BFFs, Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Fluffy Angst, Gen, Grief, Hell, John is a good dad or at least tries to be, Kid Fic, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Parents & Children, Present Tense, Siblings, angsty fluff, hunts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yalu/pseuds/Yalu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <br/>
  <i>1979</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Dean is born on a Wednesday night in Lawrence Memorial Hospital. He has no idea what his life will be like.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	January 24th

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by and is based on Hells_half_acre's [truly](http://hells-half-acre.livejournal.com/171628.html) [amazing](http://hells-half-acre.livejournal.com/15110.html) [timelines](http://hells-half-acre.livejournal.com/234487.html), particularly her post on [Dean's birthdays](http://hells-half-acre.livejournal.com/352136.html). Please take a look at them! She's done an amazing job. 
> 
> I am using a chronological timeline, which means ignoring that the writers ignore the two skipped years when they mention dates in seasons 6-8. So, just to be clear:  
> S1 starts in 2005 (putting Dean's birthday of that season in 2006), s2 is 2006-7, etc, but 2010-11 is the year Dean spends living with Lisa and Ben, S6 is 2011-12, s7 is 2012-13, the year Dean and Cas spent in Purgatory is 2013-14, and so s8 is 2014-15. Sorry if it's a bit confusing! But I think I've made it clear what seasons (and episodes) each scene in those years is set in, so you don't have to depend on the numbers.
> 
>  
> 
> Many many thanks to Trojie for volunteering to be my beta-reader!  
> (We're neither of us American, so there could be some non-American-isms in there. If you see something wrong, let me know.)

_1979_

Dean is born on a Wednesday night in Lawrence Memorial Hospital. Mary's exhausted and John has just about pulled out all his hair, but they're so happy it's infectious and the nurse smiles as she wraps him in a blanket.

Dean is cold and confused and hungry and cries constantly, but he likes this odd new feeling of being held and after a while he snuggles up contentedly. The big smears of colour above him aren't clear as faces, but they're smiling, and he feels safe. 

He has no idea what his life will be like.

 

_1984_

Dean is five. Mommy has been gone for a long time and really isn't coming back no matter how hard Dean wishes for it. She's not going to bake Dean a cake or throw him a party the way she did before – and he remembers because the big book with all the pictures of his last party, when Mommy had Sammy in her tummy, is open on the kitchen table. 

Sammy cries all the time now and Daddy's stopped talking. Dean doesn't know it's his birthday. He knows it's sometime about now because it's in January and the calendar on the wall says "January", but he doesn't know the date. He'll never remember that the only thing which made this day different is that Daddy spent all his time looking at the pictures book, all curled in on himself and making funny noises. Like choking. Kind of like Sammy noises. 

When it's late and Dean is going to bed, Daddy suddenly gets up and puts the picture book in a box and starts putting lots of other things away in boxes. When he finally comes to tuck Dean in he says they're leaving Lawrence behind forever.

 

_2000_

Dean is twenty-one and can legally walk into all the bars he's been casing with a fake badge for years now. The number doesn't mean anything special to hunters, but he gets a thrill out of it anyway. Dad takes him to a bar while Sammy happily stays behind with his homework, orders them both the best scotch in the house and toasts to the damn clean shot Dean pulled off zapping that rawhead they'd tracked down yesterday. Dean grins and knows he deserves every word. 

"Another round!" Dad calls to the bartender, and Dean picks out the oldest whisky on the shelves, just because he can. And because Dad's paying. 

This place is great – right music, right volume, right drinks – and the girls on stage are even better. Dad must think so, too; he points at one of them with his glass and says, "I think she likes you."

Dean looks around until he sees her – it's the one in purple with the sequins on her bra – and she winks at him from halfway up the pole. It's a bit weird, watching her _with_ Dad, but the whisky makes him warm and lazy and it doesn't really matter. 

Halfway through the evening, after they've had a dozen shots between them and catcalled almost as many girls, Dean realises why Dad made such a point of taking him out like this. 

Dad's treating him like a man now. So the number isn't important, but Dean will always remember this day anyway.

 

_1992_

Dean is thirteen. He's in a tiny school in Colorado and is easily the coolest guy around. He's smooth, he's streetwise, and he's smart enough to impress the teachers and get on their good sides. (He doesn't tell them his last school was teaching the exact same things a month ago.)

So it should be no problem at all to ask out Jenny Denher. She's pretty – no, she's _hot_ – and she's just as bored with their stupid history project as he is. Their team has been working on it for a week and she's laughed at all his jokes. He's seen her looking his way as she whispers with her friends; she even said that his amulet was cute ("cute" is a girl word for "cool", right?). So this should be no problem. 

"Hey there, Jenny," Dean says, and he makes sure to lean casually against the lockers as she packs her stuff to go home. She looks round and smiles – not a normal smile, but one of those weird sideways ones that people use when they find something interesting, or funny. Has to be interesting.

"Hi Dean. What's up?"

"Not much. Just thought you might want to come out and see a movie with me tonight." He gives her a grin, the one he's been practicing in the mirror. It's a perfect cool-guy grin.

She bursts out laughing. 

Later, when his face isn't so red anymore and Sammy has stopped asking why he's mad, Dean wonders if maybe it was because he's still the shortest guy in school.

 

_1985_

Dean is six. Daddy had to go away again and he was really sorry, but he trusts Dean to take care of Sammy and Dean's determined to do a good job. He's been listening really carefully every time Daddy explained how to do something and what the rules are, and he knows what to feed Sammy (mush), how to change him (poo smells yuck) and how to hold Sammy's arms and stand behind him to keep teaching him how to walk (he's not very good yet, but yesterday he balanced on his little legs for a really long time before he fell back against Dean's knees and started crying. Dean is very proud of him).

Dean has no idea it's his birthday. No one's mentioned the idea of birthdays in so long that he's forgotten about them completely. He spends the day scribbling with crayons in colouring books and gives Sammy a bath with real bubbles before bed. He's growing up way too soon.

 

_2014_

Dean is thirty-five. Somewhere in the middle of Purgatory he hacks off a werewolf's head with a sharpened rock and spends the rest of the day sleeping off heavy blood loss from the new gash on his side. Cas and Benny stand watch over him. Probably the best possible present is that they don't argue, not even once.

 

_1990_

Dean is eleven and he hates Mrs O'Donnell. He hates her and he hates school and he _hates_ that they made everyone sing to him. No one wanted to. They all think he's weird, turning up in the middle of the school year with no idea what the bells mean, and why did Sammy have to start school so badly anyway? Why did he want to? They were doing just fine learning from sitters and books and Uncle Bobby. 

He hates it here. He hates sitting at a stupid desk and cutting out shapes from coloured paper for art class. He hates that the teacher asked him _in front of everyone_ where the cake was because every student who has a birthday always brings food to share, and he didn't know. He hates having to show his working out on math problems and that everyone asks about his dad _and_ his mom because all of them have got both. 

He hates that Dad didn't even remember his birthday this year. 

The motel door makes a satisfying _bang_ when he kicks it shut and Sammy, who's walking beside him, yelps and jumps. "Dean?" he asks timidly. "You okay?"

Dean doesn't answer, just hauls Sammy's backpack right off his shoulders and dumps both bags on the table. _Thud_. "Did you eat all your lunch?"

"Yeah," Sammy says quietly. He just keeps standing there, all meek and careful, and Dean slams the can of beans down on the table as hard as he can.

" _What_?" 

Sam cringes. "You're mad."

"Yeah, I'm mad!" He bangs the frying pan onto the hotplate for good measure. Maybe it'll make him–

But Sam doesn't shut up. "But Dean, it's your birth–"

"I KNOW IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!" yells Dean. "I know! I got stupid teachers saying it all day because I had to be in school all day and I hate them and they hate me and it's all your _fault_!" 

He doesn't want to cry. He doesn't. He's too old for that; he's _eleven_. He only storms off into the bathroom because Sammy's looking scared and Dean doesn't trust himself not to throw something. Sammy doesn't deserve that. And he only stays in the bathroom for so long because he can't keep his breath steady and he's got the hiccups. That's what he'll tell Sam. That's what it sounds like. Sam will never notice how much toilet paper ended up in the trash can full of snot, and Dean washes his face with cold water before coming out. 

Sammy's not there. 

Dean panics – _Where did he– I didn't mean– could be hurt– Dad'll kill me– not his fault_ – and grabs the room keys and his wallet and runs out the door. The wallet is too big to stuff into his child-size pockets and he's fumbling madly with it when _stupid_ Sammy's face appears at the end of the parking lot. He grins and waves at Dean and Dean's almost too relieved to be mad at him.

Almost.

"What the _hell_ , Sammy? Where'd you think you were going? You can't go out without me, you know that! You _idiot_!"

Sam flinches and looks at his feet. He's holding something half-folded in his hands, and after Dean sighs and drags him inside he offers the somethings to his brother. 

They're movie tickets. 

"It's a birthday present," Sammy says when Dean stares at him. "So you won't be sad anymore."

Dean pretends he said "mad" and takes one of them. His eyes widen and he'd whistle approvingly if he'd mastered that skill yet. "Wow," he says. "These are _PG_. How'd you manage that?"

Sammy just grins hugely and looks up at him with his big eyes (he must've used those eyes on the ticket lady. He can sweet-talk anyone into anything when he does that). "So you wanna go?"

"...Yeah." Dean finds himself grinning, and nods. "Yeah, I wanna go, definitely. Thanks, Sammy!"

Beaming, Sam grabs his hand and pulls him towards the door and the road and the mall with the movie theatre – but Dean has to stop and lock the motel door first.

They watch _Back to the Future Part II_ and love it even though they've never seen the first one, and they eat popcorn and cotton candy and have burgers for dinner afterward. They spend a lot more money than they should, but Dad called yesterday to say he got hurt killing this ghoul and will be away another week so he's sending them extra. 

Hours later, when they're curled up in the motel beds (Dean still made Sammy take a bath; Sammy complained but didn't argue as much as usual), Dean rolls over to say goodnight, but stops when he sees Sammy's already out like a light. Dean smiles. He won't say it, but right now, he really loves his little brother.

 

_1997_

Dean is eighteen and right now he'd cheerfully kill his little brother. Maybe. Okay, no, but Sam's still driving him crazy. What the _hell_ does he want to be a magician for? And that stupid cape and top hat he won't stop wearing and dammit, if Sammy doesn't stop waving that stupid plastic wand he's going to hit Dad in the head. Or Dean, again. 

Dad's watching the news. Usually they get their jobs from the papers but Dad gets a stiff neck after a few hours so now that's Dean's job. He's sick of it. He's sick of getting ink stains on his hands and seeing _January 24th_ at the top of every page. Dad and Sammy both remembered, both recited happy birthday wishes and gave him a gift – a _Metallica_ cassette and a control of the car radio for the next week – but it was over in ten minutes and Dean has been sour ever since. Dad always tries to make birthdays a little bit special, when he remembers them, but this year was over and done with even faster than last time. Like him being older doesn't matter so much anymore.

Maybe that's why he grabs the stupid wand the next time it whacks him and throws it across the room. Maybe that's why isn't satisfied with Sam's apology and yells at him instead. It's probably the only reason why he yells back at Dad when he tells them to quit it, because yelling at Dad is always a bad idea. 

He ends up storming off to the nearest bar, flashing the State Police badge that says he's twenty-three and hooking up with a chick who's been crying over her ex. They go back to her place and Dean's still so pissed off, and she's so weepy, that in the end it's not even that much fun.

 

_1982_

Dean is three years old. He has a little friend, Mark, who lives three doors down and just started playing T-ball too. Mark's mommy said he could spend the _whole day_ at Dean's house and Dean's Mommy tries to make them a cake but burns it, so she makes them pie instead. Daddy takes Dean and Mark out to the yard even though it's still really cold and teaches them how to swing the bat _just_ right to make the ball go flying high. He plays with them for a long time and says they're both ready for the big leagues but whispers to Dean that he's the best ever. 

Mark doesn't want to stop playing so they take turns swinging and seeing how far across the garden they can hit it. They get in a fight about turns after Mark misses and wants to go again, but forget about it just as fast.

It's a great day. In a month's time he won't remember any of it, but it's a great day.

 

_2008_

Dean is twenty-nine and it's his last birthday. 

In three months the hellhounds will come for him. There's nothing they can do about it. Sam's being an optimist, but Dean can't bring himself to do much more than go through the motions, because what chance is there really that they're going to find a loophole in just three months that no one else has found since demons started this whole crossroads crap hundreds of years ago?

He's going to die. He's going to get ripped apart and dragged to Hell and burn till there's nothing human left in his soul. He's going to become a demon, a black-eyed monster, and there's nothing they can do about it.

It's worth it, yeah. When it's his life or Sam's there's only one choice, but he doesn't want to die. 

His life for Sam's. Like Dad's life for his. Except Dad didn't have to wait around a year watching the end come at him. Bastard. 

But Dad got out of Hell, and part of Dean wonders if he'll be able to do the same thing. Claw his way up, find a gate... wait centuries for some idiot to open the gate and let half the demons in there escape too. Yeah right. Not happening. 

So how's he supposed to celebrate his last birthday? He could try to cram a lifetime's worth of good stuff into one day. Could act like it's just another normal year, or ignore the calendar, try to forget about it completely. Or reminisce about all the good times? Dean snorts and knocks back another slug of beer. 

He was right, months ago, to use up every goddamn dying wish he could, and that it's his birthday now should be just another excuse to party, really. Too bad he's not in the mood.

 

_1991_

Dean is twelve and Dad's not here. Again. But he's doing something important, Dean knows that. People were getting their arms ripped off somewhere in Texas and someone had to save them. Dad saves people. He's a hero. Sammy doesn't know, of course, but he doesn't miss Dad as much either. He thinks Dad's a salesman. Dean has fun making up all sorts of weird things Dad's selling in other states, and it makes him feel great when Dad smiles at him after Sammy asks if he's got any marshmallow rocket launchers left.

The lumpy motel bed isn't the best place to clean a shotgun, but Dean's only just made himself this sawed-off and he's proud of it. Doesn't matter that it doesn't need a clean, because he's never fired the thing (shooting ranges are for pistols and rifles, Sammy; shotguns scatter pellets really wide and... forget it), but it makes him feel better to be ready, and he loads it with consecrated iron rounds. Dad never did catch the shtriga.

Sam's talked him into going to the movies again. They should do it every year, he says, and stumbles around trying to remember the word "tradition" from what he learned in school at Christmas, and Dean kinda likes the idea. 

_Home Alone_ isn't playing anymore, which makes Sam pout, but Dean's secretly relieved because he doesn't want to see kiddie movies anymore, and _Edward Scissorhands_ looks cool.

They manage to sneak Sammy in by pretending they got there early with a parent and had to run to the bathroom, and they have fun again, with popcorn and burger for dinner just like last year, and it's great, and it almost makes up for Dad missing it, again.

 

_2001_

Dean is twenty-two.

"Incoming!"

He's been hunting for–

"Where's the _salt_ , Sam?"

–almost six years. 

"You just used it all!"

They've been after this ghost for two weeks now–

"Dammit, boy..."

_Bang! Bang!_

–and the bitch really–

"Throw me the lighter!"

_BANG!_

–really–

" _AAaaaaAH_! Ah, oh God, _ow_ – AAAH!"

"Get off him!"

– _really_ –

"Just– _AH!_ –light it!"

"Get _off_ –!"

_Sccccratch-hiss._

–does not want–

_Whooosh._

" _Noooo_!"

–to die.

As the bones go up in salty flames she shrieks and vanishes in a burst of yellow. Sam is lying at the base of the tree she threw him against, bleeding from some fricking deep claw marks but not from the head, thank God, and Dad's standing over the burning coffin pouring a bit more accelerant on it, just in case. Dean stays kneeling in the wet grass, wiped, and tosses down the iron rod that hadn't saved Sammy from being _this close_ to getting his throat ripped out like all her other victims. Why is he always the one they go after anyway?

By the time the bones are dust and they've refilled the grave and packed it down and replaced the sod, trudged back to the car and stored their tools and stopped at a 24-hour-mart to stock up on salt and gotten back to the motel and fought over showers– by then it's five minutes to midnight, and when Dean wearily registers the date on the bedside clock, he's too tired to really care.

 

_1994_

Dean is fifteen. He's been taking care of the car for years now, if you count washing and replacing tyres and stuff, and he knows he already loves her more than Dad ever did. Dad started teaching him engines last year and since then he's been doing most of the maintenance too, and a few weeks back he was the one who got her running again after the fuel lines froze out in a snowbank. He swears she sings to him now. 

"You taught me to drive when I was _twelve_!" Dean shouts, kicking his chair. "I've driven her a hundred times when you were too tired! I can do it!"

"In _emergencies only_ ," Dad snaps back. "You don't look old enough, Dean, you'll get caught. It's non-essential."

"It's my fricking birthday, I can do non-essential!"

Dad barely hesitates a second before saying, "No, forget it, Dean. You're not going."

"We don't even have a job!"

"You're _not going_!"

Sam flinches and sinks a little deeper into his chair, almost getting cereal up his nose. Dean and John face off, seething and stubborn, and it takes longer than normal for Dean to drop his gaze and mutter, "Yes, sir."

John nods once, sharply, and goes back to the paper. Sammy looks up at his brother, pity all over his face (it's really sympathy, but Dean can't tell right now), and it's all too much. Dean stalks out the door _without_ the keys and makes his way to the parking lot.

She's waiting for him. 

Dean sighs and runs a hand over her hood, wiping off a bit of late snow. "Sorry, baby," he says quietly. "Next time."

 

_2006_

Dean is twenty-seven. He's driving the scenic route from Ohio to Arizona and Sam is slumped in the passenger seat, blearily watching the world go by. It's way too quiet.

He'd hoped that having Sam hunting with him again would make everything go back to normal. They could go into a town, catch a flick, have a meal, have some fun again between jobs and have something stupid to argue about between albums on long rides. 

But it's Jessica's birthday today too. Or, was. Or would have been. Sam's been pretty closed-mouthed about it but from what he whimpers in his sleep Dean's pretty sure he'd been planning to pop the question today, and it would've been sappy as hell but Sam would've been _happy_ , and Dean maybe could've handled having a chick around sometimes. Jess seemed pretty cool. And hot. Really hot. ...He probably shouldn't be thinking that. 

Sam hadn't said a word all day. Dean tried; said he should distract himself with fun stuff, just for a while, but all Sam had done was shake his head and now they're cruising along a smooth road on a warm day after a good hunt and everything's great except everything's miserable.

It doesn't bother Dean that much, doing nothing special for his birthday. That's old hat. What really worries him is the way Sam doesn't seem to notice anything around him, and how his eyes have glazed over. 

He's afraid that might not change.

 

_1989_

Dean is ten years old. He and Sam are staying with Uncle Bobby again even though Dad's still mad about them playing ball instead of learning to shoot a double-barrel. They shouted a lot in the kitchen that day, and Dean knows it was all his fault, but after Uncle Bobby picked them up last week he'd told Dean not to worry about it, and that this time they'd get John's lessons over with _and_ have time to play.

Uncle Bobby's place is _cool_. It's huge, the house and the yard and the scrapyard. The scrapyard's the best. Sam's too little to wander round in it – he'd get lost – but Uncle Bobby tells Dean he can go wherever he likes as long as he doesn't climb more than one car high on a pile-up and he doesn't hurt himself on anything sharp. Dean wouldn't, he's not stupid, but he promises and keeps his promise, and sitting on the cab roof of a rusted semi is high enough to be awesome anyway. He can see _everything_.

Uncle Bobby is cool too. He lets Dean watch while he fixes cars and explains how they work, and when Dean gets confused or hands over the wrong wrench he just says it's okay and explains all over again. Soon as he's done working they get out the mitts and baseball and play out back, and Dean throws as hard as he can and doesn't have to think about anything but chasing it because Uncle Bobby's watching Sam for now, so Sam's safe. They mostly play catch because they don't have a bat, and Dean has to run as fast as he can to keep up with Uncle Bobby's pitches. His legs get sore and he's ends up panting but it's _so much fun_. 

After it gets dark they make dinner from scratch in the kitchen, with measuring cups and everything and no foil or plastic wrappers in sight. Uncle Bobby says he doesn't cook like this often, and Dean wonders why he decided to do it now, but it tastes great and he doesn't care. Then they watch a movie on the VCR – Dean thinks the dwarfs and maze and stuff are boring but the goblin king looks really cool – and Dean goes to sleep that night full, warm, and happy. 

(Sammy snores.)

 

_2003_

Dean is twenty-four and for the first time ever Sammy's not around for his birthday. Sam's in fricking _Stanford_ and he hasn't even bothered to call. Dean knows – he's been checking his phone. And Dad's phone. And the spare ones. 

They're in a bar, him and Dad, and they've been slumped over beers for hours now. Sulking, really, except that word isn't in Dean's vocabulary unless it's about someone else. Not him, or him and Dad. Sammy. Sammy's _gone_. 

Sammy fricking _abandoned_ them. Just picked up and left, thought only about himself, didn't care what he was doing to them. And he had the nerve to bitch about how it's _different_ for him? How he can't spend his life going after revenge just because he doesn't have happy memories of Mom making him apple pies on his birthday? Bullshit! Dean doesn't remember that either. It's not about that. It's about the _job_. It's about _saving_ people. How many people are he and Dad _not_ going to save now because Sammy's not around to do all that research-fu he's so good at?

Dean orders another beer for himself, but not for Dad, even though his bottle's empty too. Dad's in one of his really bad moods right now – not an angry one, a sad one, one where he gets all quiet and you can't tell how drunk he is until he starts talking about Mom. Last time he got that way was after the fight with Sam. Dean had to drag him back to the motel and got spewed on, and spent half the night up afraid Dad would choke in his sleep. Why the fuck isn't Sammy here to help him? 

Dad's mumbling something. It sounds weepy. Dean almost doesn't care enough to listen, but he does anyway. "Will nev'r 'bandon my sons," Dad's mumbling. "Not _any_ 'v you. _Nev'r_..." 

"Yeah, Dad. Right back at 'cha." 

"Sh'ld go ta Minn'sota. Sh'ld meet 'm. C'mon. Dean." 

Dad starts to tug on his sleeve. Dean frowns and shrugs him off, but figures it's the best chance he'll get to get them moving. "We're goin' to the motel, Dad. To sleep. Come on, get your jacket. Gotta pay the tab." 

"Sh'ld take you," Dad mutters. "D'serve t' know."

Outside, guiding Dad but not quite having to carry him, Dean shouts at the sky, "Fricking awesome birthday, Sam!" and gets angrier when there's no answer. 

His phone beeps; there's a text. From Sam. Sent early this morning. All it says is "Happy birthday" and Dean guesses it must've been delayed by the cell network being stupid. It doesn't fix anything.

 

_1987_

Dean is eight. He's tired. Sammy hasn't stopped screaming all day and Dean doesn't know _why_. He demands things and then ignores them, throws things and won't say why. Dean spends all day trying to make him happy, just like he did yesterday and the day before. Sammy won't listen. He won't take a nap, won't eat except cookies, won't even play. Dean forces them through dinner and bathtime and falls asleep within minutes after Sammy finally drops off.

In his dreams he can smell apple pie.

 

_2011_

Dean is thirty-two. It's a Monday morning but his alarm says two minutes to seven and he doesn't have to get up yet. It's warm and comfy here. Soft pillow. Nice pillow. 

There's a knock on the door of his guest room. Dean rolls his face into the mattress and makes a noise that could be either a "yeah?" or a perfect imitation of a cranky bear, but Ben or Lisa – whichever one of them's outside – takes it as "come in".

It's both of them, actually, and through sleepy eyes Dean sees that they're grinning. Ben's carrying a tray. There's food on it. He smells _food_. He sits up and blinks. 

"Happy birthday!" Ben cries, and Dean has to blink again because _that's food_ and they're bringing it to him? Really? 

Lisa catches his confusion and smiles as she walks around to sit on the far side of the mattress – Ben's already claimed the spot nearest Dean, but it's a queen bed and it doesn't really matter, they're both pretty close. She's got three glasses of juice in hand and once Ben's settled the tray (on his _lap_ ) she hands them around. "We thought we'd make this morning a bit special."

And _that's food_ and it smells awesome. Eggs, bacon, burger bun, even some little microwaved pancakes swimming in syrup on the side. Dean's face is stretching into a broad grin. "You brought me _food_?"

Okay, so he's not completely awake yet. Ben and Lisa laugh. "Yep. Breakfast in bed – it's a tradition," Lisa says. When he shakes his head, sort of stunned, she leans over and whispers theatrically, "You're supposed to eat it."

Dean laughs, shakes his head and stretches out to kiss her. She happily meets him halfway. "Thanks, Lis." He looks over at Ben, who's trying for coolly impatient, and asks, "What, you want a kiss too?"

Ben makes a lemon face.

There are three plates crammed onto the little tray and they all snatch bits off each other's and talk about other birthdays they've had (when Ben asks, "what did you and Sam do?" it finally doesn't hurt), then rush off to dress for school and work.

The truck takes three tries to start but Dean doesn't get mad at it, and Ben gets a ride with him even though the school is on Lisa's way and out of Dean's, just because they both love it. Lisa shakes her head and smiles as they take off with Led Zeppelin pounding through the windows. 

At work, Dean only tells the other guys when they ask why he's in such a great mood, and for the next few hours everyone seems to be wishing him happy birthday. It's bizarre. Is this normal for workmates? Dean decides that even if they're all secretly the Happy Construction Brothers Broadway Troupe, he likes it. And they give him all the fun jobs, when there's a choice.

Ben's got baseball practice until six-thirty on Mondays so Dean expects to be alone when he gets home, but Lisa's there, putting two presents on the kitchen table and threatening violence if he even tries to guess before they go pick Ben up. "Besides, I've got another present for you."

He grins suggestively and waggles his eyebrows. "Oh yeah?" he says, and slides his hands over her hips, tugging her closer. He kisses her. "What's that?"

She kisses back and it's as great as ever, but then she stops and looks at him. "I want you to move into my room."

Dean steps back – not startled, exactly, just... "Er, okay?"

Lisa puts an arm around his waist. "C'mere," she says, and pulls him into a hug – the quiet, comfortable kind she gave out a lot when he first turned up and every second thing reminded him of Sam. It's a good hug. Dean returns it and rests his head on hers. For a moment, they just stand there. "You're not a guest anymore, you know," Lisa says. "You're part of this family now."

And damn if that doesn't make him feel all warm and fuzzy. He tightens his arms and feels her smile. He wants to accept. He does. And it's not like it would be all that different; he sleeps with her in there pretty often anyway (or she squeezes in with him on the queen, or the couch) so they know it'll work – he knows she only talks in her sleep if it's too hot and that neither of them are blanket hogs, and she knows that if he wakes up thrashing from a nightmare she should just wait it out, not try to wake him. All it would mean is moving clothes and stuff over and confessing to the shotgun and holy water he keeps stashed within arm's reach, but he's pretty sure she knows about that already. He sucks at vacuuming.

But. "What'll Ben think? He seems pretty okay with you and me so far, but..." Dean shrugs. Feelings talks have never been his strong point. Lisa shakes her head.

"Don't worry about it. Ben's hoping we'll get married so you'll officially be his father. He'll be thrilled."

 _Married_? Dean's kind of thrown by that one, but as the idea rolls around in his head it's not completely horrific. Chick-flick stuff in the end, yeah, but it's a kinda nice image, him staying here forever and always having a home, sending Ben to college and actually having the life Mom wanted for him, that Bobby wanted, that _Sam_ wanted. And from the look on Lisa's face she might want to – someday. Someday, maybe. Not yet. He hasn't even lived with them a whole year yet. 

What he says is, "Huh." What he loves about Lisa is that she doesn't need to ask what that means. 

It takes all of ten minutes to move Dean's stuff to her closet, and they spend a lot longer than that supposedly stripping the old sheets off his bed before seeing the time and running to go pick up Ben (they were still dressed, dammit, but she nips his ear and promises, "Later," and that's good enough).

They take Lisa's car; Dean drives. Ben's face lights up when he sees them and he makes Dean get out and come over rather than just jumping in the car, probably because that priss Jack Mansfield, who used to make fun of him, is still waiting to be picked up and Ben likes to be seen with a cool adult. And hey, so what? There are worse ways to scare off an old bully than just standing there looking tough.

The presents turn out to be a Black Sabbath mug, t-shirt and CD (he already has that album on cassette, but Lisa doesn't have a cassette player anymore and she says he should be able to play his music in the house too), and DVD of a movie called _Inception_ , which Ben swears is the awesomest movie _ever_ and Lisa agrees, so it must be worth a shot. They're not really the kind of things Dean's ever gotten before; the shirt yes, but a ceramic mug is pretty useless for life on the road and you can't really collect DVDs in a car. These are things meant to stay in a house.

They watch the movie on Lisa's blu-ray player and Ben was right – it's awesome. Dean spends half the time cheering on the fight scenes and the other half getting his brain twisted inside-out trying to understand it all but it's a good kind of crazy, and he's blown away by it. He tells Ben it's a great film and when Ben puffs up and beams Dean realises the movie must have been his idea. Great kid. 

It's a Monday, so they do have to go to bed early, but Dean lets himself be soppy and gives Ben a hug before saying goodnight. He loves that kid. In his head, he can say it. 

Lisa's waiting for him just inside their room, and _later_ is all it's cracked up to be. They struggle to be quiet for Ben's sake (he suspects – he's old enough to suspect – but he doesn't have to _know_ ), but it's all the more fun to shift and surprise her and watch her swear as she bites her lips shut. He kisses them. She responds with a hip twist that makes him moan and at this rate he thinks they'll never wind down enough to sleep.

They do, of course, and Dean's last thought before he drifts off is that if _this_ is what civilian life is like, then he'd be happy to live it forever.

 

_1999_

Dean is twenty. 

"What the _hell_ did you think you were doing?"

He's not exactly sure. 

Well, he knows what he went out _for_ but that can't be what Dad's asking – the bags of food are pretty obvious, and the steaming boxes from the overpriced but totally worth it bakery have a logo printed on them, so it can't be that hard to guess. But Dad's not looking at them, just at Dean, seething and red in the face, and Dean straightens up and backpedals automatically. "Er, the baker said they'd be done at closing time–"

"Don't you ever do that again! Did you just _forget_ there's a ghost out there going after boys your age every Sunday?"

"It's not really dark yet..."

Dad makes a strangled sort of noise and stalks towards the door, grabbing his coat. "Fine! Get yourself killed." He steps over the salt line and slams the door behind him. 

Dean's still holding the bags and hot boxes, and still just as confused. "Where's he going?"

From the table Sam says, "Probably to interview the last victim's mother again. Something's not right. He's been talking about it for a while."

"Great." Dean sighs and starts unpacking the shopping bags – beer, chips, donuts and all their favourite kinds of candy bars. Plus burgers from the take-out joint nearby and, of course, his boxes. They smell better every time he catches a whiff. 

Seems Sam thinks so too because he actually pulls his head out of those books and cranes his neck to see around Dean. "What've you got?"

"Just stuff."

For some reason Sam scowls – it's like he's five again instead of fifteen. "Fine. See if I help you get back on Dad's good side."

Why's he being so annoying? "I don't need your help, Sammy."

"I _told_ you not to go."

"Shut up."

Dad doesn't come back for hours, and in the end Dean gives up hoping that the pie he'd stashed in the microwave (cherry, Dad's favourite) will somehow make everybody happy again. He eats it, and the apple one he'd got for himself. It doesn't salvage his day, just gives him a stomachache.

 

_1980_

Dean is one year old. 

Mary's uncle Ed turns up at their door mid-morning and she quickly herds him off to the backyard, and from Dean's nursery window John can see them arguing. He'd been hoping to make friends with the guy – Mary has so little family left; he didn't even know she _had_ an uncle – but she's standing there with her arms folded and hip jutting out in that way that means she is never, ever going to agree to whatever Ed wants. John doesn't even need to watch to be sure. Instead he rubs Dean's back and keeps on humming, slowly pacing the nursery, and pretends he was never spying in the first place.

It isn't very long before Dean falls asleep and John has just carefully lowered him into the cradle when heavy footsteps thump downstairs and Ed's voice says, "If you won't do your job even to protect that kid then it's _your_ funeral, not mine!"

He slams the front door and there's silence from Mary – she's probably upset; John should be there with her, should have been the whole time – but the bang woke Dean and he's starting to cry. John sighs, buries his frustration, and picks up his son again. "Come on, Dean," he says, kissing the baby's head. "Let's go take care of your Mommy."

 

_1996_

Dean is seventeen. There's a movie called _Jumanji_ on and Sam is going to love it, and it'll finish just in time for them to get to Big Brian's Beefy Burgerhouse before it closes that awesome all-you-can-eat dessert bar. He got the tickets this morning between classes (or, between the classes he's still willing to go to, but what does it matter?), and now he's just waiting for Sammy to say goodbye to his crowd of friends as they head off towards the sports field.

Only, Sam's going with them, walking right by the fence Dean's leaning against, not even looking around. 

Dean waits, waves at him, gets no answer, then frowns and jogs over. "Hey, Sammy!"

Finally Sam turns around, but he looks confused. "What's wrong?"

"What d'you mean?" asks Dean. "I got the tickets–" he waves them "–and it's on at four so we've got to hurry."

Sam suddenly winces and looks over his shoulder at his friends. Most of them are waiting for him; a few have gone on ahead. "Dean, I can't. I've got practice."

That... but – "What?"

"I told you last week, they've moved soccer practice to Wednesdays. I can't miss it."

But he could miss out on their movie, obviously. This tradition was _his_ idea. "We'll be out of this school inside a month, Sammy; you're not gonna be playing with them again – not in competitions. They'll have to find someone else soon anyway."

"They're my _friends_ , Dean! I promised!"

"You promised _me_. Family first, Sam."

More of the other boys have walked off now; only a handful are still looking back their way and only one is actually waiting. Roger, Sam's latest best friend. Sam looks back and forth between Dean and Roger, torn, and Dean gets fed up with the drama; he starts walking and pulls Sam along by the sleeve. To Roger he says, "Sorry kid, he can't make it this week."

"Dean!" hisses Sam.

"You can't. It's my birthday. Remember I went ice-skating with you when you wanted to on your birthday? That _sucked_. You owe me."

Sam looks sour but stops arguing. He says goodbye to Roger and they go to the mall. They get popcorn and sodas. They see the movie. It's funny. Really funny.

They don't enjoy it at all.

 

_1988_

Dean is nine years old. 

He can recognise a lot of the highways they drive now, a lot of the landmarks. They've taken most of the major routes across America half a dozen times each and sometimes Dean sees a particular road sign or the jagged line of some mountain in the distance and knows for sure just what's coming up next. Sometimes he's wrong, and sometimes the picture in his head doesn't turn up until hours later, but he likes it anyway. 

Sammy's playing with his army men in the back seat, and ever since Dean gave them to him he's been a lot happier and quieter during drives, so right now Dean's allowed to sit in the front. He _loves_ it. He gets to hold the map and Dad lets him decide what cassette to play next, so Dean picks one of Dad's favourites that he's decided is one of _his_ favourites, slides it in and rewinds it until it clicks. When the first strums come through Dad grins and Dean beams as they start to sing along.

Being nine, Dean doesn't really get everything the song's about, but he gets the bits about looking for someone, and he thinks maybe the singer guy drives a lot too.

Dad suddenly flinches when the guy sings " _I've been this way ten years to the day_ ", and Dean doesn't get it, because ten years ago was before he was even _born_ , but when he asks Dad if he's okay Dad just frowns and shakes his head. "Yeah, fine. It's nothing. I just... I thought I remembered something."

But he doesn't seem happy about the song anymore. Dean turns it off and asks Sammy why his men are hunting for treasure in the ashtray.

 

_2005_

Dean is twenty-six. This is the third year Sam's been gone and it's not so hard anymore, but part of Dean wishes it was. He goes to see a flick by himself and has popcorn and a burger and pretends it's just as much fun, and when the girl checking IDs catches his birthdate and coyly wishes him a _really_ good day, he smiles and flirts right back.

He's not fooling anyone though, not even Dad. Dad's been eerie lately, just _looking_ at him all the time. Thoughtfully. And the books he got out for this job have barely moved since Dean left for the movie, even if the pile of beer cans has grown. 

But Dean doesn't care right now and just grabs one for himself and flops on a bed. He vacantly watches the ceiling as he pops the can and doesn't bother trying to slurp up the fizz before it dribbles onto his hand. He might possibly stay like this forever, except suddenly Dad barks, "Heads up," and tosses something at him.

He grabs it by reflex: The car keys, old and worn and with an ugly plastic keychain Sam bought when he was ten. He sits up, puzzled. "Where'm I going?" he asks.

Dad shrugs. "Wherever. Or nowhere, up to you. She's yours."

Dean... _really_ needs to know if he heard that right. "Huh?"

Like it's obvious, Dad sighs and leans back in his chair, but he's got a hint of a smile. "I need something with more storage than the Impala's got in her trunk. Maybe a pickup. You knew I was thinking about it."

"I thought you were gonna get rid of her..." He'd been quietly mourning for weeks. He looks at the keys and something bubbles in his chest. A grin. But it's too good to be true. "Really?"

Dad actually chuckles. "Yeah, really. She's yours. Go bang the hood or something. I'm going to start setting up a new ID and credit card to buy a truck."

But Dean still just stands there, floored, and Dad waits, then reaches out for the keys and says, "If you don't want–"

"No!" Dean clutches the keys and steps back, curling protectively around them like a dork, but he just doesn't care. Dad boots him out the door, but he's chuckling, and Dean approaches the Impala reverently, like a devoted suitor praying that she loves him too. 

Dean brushes lumpy ice from her wipers and dusts frost from her headlights. She's so beautiful. And _his_ , and he's _hers_ , and from now on Dad's just the passenger and Dean can glide her into those right-angle turns that make her squeal if you don't do it just right. _He_ 's her driver. 

"Oh baby," he breathes, "you and me, we're going to _fly_."

 

_1998_

Dean is nineteen, and when it comes to getting girls, he's not above _anything_. 

"It's my birthday, you know," he tells Shelley Paterson, sliding right up against her and nipping her ear. She giggles and her face turns solid red, right down her neck, and she looks around worriedly _again_ and Dean rolls his eyes. As if there's any chance someone'll just happen to come round the back of this particular building; the grass is high and there's no sign anyone's been walking here for days. Except them. No one's coming, so Dean ignores her checking and moves in to kiss her neck.

That distracts her. Shelley doesn't act like a prude chick, but Dean's starting to wonder if she is anyway. Maybe she's really good at flirting but never got to the good parts before. Oh well. Not like he's going to mind showing her. 

"Know any way I can make my birthday extra-special this year?" he asks, and he flicks up the back of her shirt to get the cold air on her skin before touching it himself. She shivers.

"Oh... maybe..."

She's not really listening, but she obviously likes it, tugging on him and asking for more, so he gives up on the game and enjoys his birthday present. 

For about a minute.

"Dean!"

Shit, that's Dad. (Dad? Dad's supposed to be finishing up a job two states away, what–?) Shelley shrieks and jumps back and fumbles with her shirt as though he'd done way more than open one or two buttons, and she trips on something and Dean catches her round the waist (what? He can't let her fall) and she ends up half-lying back in his arms, and that's what Dad sees when he comes around the corner. 

Dean is _not_ blushing. 

Dad looks a bit startled, a bit like he's going to laugh, but he shakes it off and says, "Dean, we've got to go. Got word from Bobby; he could use a hand. Go help Sam pack the car."

Shelley looks mortified and grabs his shirt to hide her face. Dean might be grateful that Dad's being all business about this except she won't move so he's stuck in this goddamn prince charming pose and can only nod. "I'm coming."

Dad nods back and turns to go. Dean swears he sees a grin slip out on the way and he scowls. Shelley's actually heavier than she looks, so Dean just lowers her down until she's sitting in the grass and pries her hands off him. "You okay?" he asks. 

She clamps her hands to her face. "Dean," she says slowly, still all red down her neck, "go away."

He goes. They leave town within the hour.

Turns out Sam told Dad where to find him. He'd been watching. Traitor.

 

_2009_

Dean is thirty. Or seventy. He doesn't know anymore. Can't really bring himself to care. 

What does it matter anyway if he's still the same age he was... would have been... whatever. They're just stupid numbers, and he lost count in the Pit ages ago. He wanted to forget. But he feels it – feels like an old man. Tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep tired and aching right through his chest, like the weight of the world is pressing down on him. It pretty much is. 

If he could, he'd be angry, like Sam said – hell, he deserves to be angry. With Alistair, with the angels, with God... especially with God. But he can't. He can't even summon the energy to be angry with himself for failing. For breaking. 

It's all his fault. All these people dying, all the ones who've died, _every_ person on Earth is going to die because of him. Because he can't stop it. He's weak, he cracked. He's just a broken soul in a patched-up meatsuit and he can't do what they're asking, he can't, he _can't_...

He just can't. 

Cas says it wasn't his fault, that it was Fate, and Dean's never believed in fate but right now he wants to. He wants to believe he didn't have a choice... but he did. He always did.

He thinks could have held out longer and chose not to. That's what he remembers. It's so clear: he remembers saying _Fuck it_ and getting off the rack because he wanted to, because he envied Alistair his power, because it had to be better than staying and because he didn't care anymore. He wanted the pain to end so much that he didn't care that they put a little girl in front of him – no shallow end with those guys. It didn't matter that she was small, that she was crying, that the whites of her eyes were so huge in her dark skin that for a second they glinted like stars in the muck and guts of Hell. He remembers that one last moment before he picked up the razor, the one second where all options were still open– but there was no hope of escape and he drowned in despair, and made a long, slow, surgical cut through her eyeballs: First one, then the other. He thinks he chose to do that, and he's desperate to believe that he didn't.

But if Cas is right and he had no choice then there's no hope at all now. If the fate of the world rests with him they're all going to die, all of them. Humans and angels and everything else. He can't save them. He's not good enough, he never was. He's failed everyone and he's _nothing_.

Dad never broke. Dad held out for a hundred years and still managed to claw his way out and fight Azazel in the cemetery. Dean had to be rescued. He's broken and lost and tears are hot on his cheeks because he can't save anyone, ever. The world is going to burn and every bit of good he's ever done will be less than nothing when Lucifer gets free. Dad's gone. There's no one left who can stop it.

It's all his fault.

 

_1986_

Dean is seven. It's really warm in Florida, even this early in the morning, and the tall grasses around him are swaying in the wind. They're not as bright green as he's making them in the picture he's drawing for Sammy – the real ones are a lot lighter, kinda soft – but the crayon box only has one kind of green in it. There's no good colour for the sky either; the sun's behind the clouds so he can't draw it, but the clouds are so thin that it's bright anyway.

This spot by the creek is really quiet. Dean can hear the water splashing and a few frogs croaking, but they're so far away from anywhere that if a car comes he'll hear it fifty feet off. But it's too early for that, only just past dawn. 

Daddy said he was sorry they didn't make it to the next town last night; it was just too far, and Daddy was too tired to drive safe, so they'd slept in the car. Dean didn't mind. It was kind of like an adventure.

Sammy hadn't liked it much; he'd cried and took a long time to get to sleep, and when Dean woke up all rested Daddy still looked just as tired, so he knows Sammy was probably up a lot all night too. Daddy needs lots of sleep now so Dean promised to take his brother out to play. He didn't mean with worms, but there's lots of them in the mud and Sammy's not eating them so he guesses it's okay. 

"Here, Sammy – look what I made you." He holds up the drawing he made on the back of a motel bill and offers the crayons. "Don't you want to make one too?"

Sammy shakes his head and keeps digging in the mud with his fingers. He hauls up a lump of mostly-hard stuff and shows it to Dean. Dean doesn't see what's so great about it, but he smiles anyway.

"That's real nice, Sammy."

Sam giggles. "'f yooo."

"For me?" Dean doesn't really want to touch that. "What is it?"

"Pie!"

Ha, okay. Mud pies. Dean breaks off a piece of tall grass and uses it to poke some holes in the top of Sam's lump, then writes both their initials in it. "There – now it's really ours." He smiles and lifts both his arms and pumps his fists a little. "Good on you, Sammy."

"Yay!" says Sam, and he throws up his arms too, dropping the 'pie' to the ground, where it slumps into goo. His face falls. "Pie gone, Dean..."

"Hey, it's okay, Sammy," says Dean. "We can make another one." Dad won't be awake for ages anyway. 

Sam breaks into a huge smile and he throws himself at Dean, hugging him. "Love you!"

Dean hugs him back. "Love you too."

 

_2007_

Dean is twenty-eight and he's not going to kill his brother. Not _ever_ , no matter what Dad said, no matter what anyone says. Gordon was just a paranoid obsessive asshole and all that crap about little Hitler riding shotgun– Why does he even remember it? The guy's a whackjob and it's not important. 

He trusts Sam completely. _Completely_. Sam would sooner die than hurt people, or even monsters who don't deserve it. Yeah, okay, Dean can see where the freak-outs come from – the psychic visions and being immune to the demon virus, that's creepy, but that doesn't mean he's not human anymore, not even not _pure_ human. He's just Sam, and whatever Yellow-Eyes has planned for him and the others, Sam's not going to do it. Dean believes that. 

Problem is, Sam doesn't, and it's really starting to scare him. Sam believes he has a destiny even if he hates it. Sam's been madly trying to save people not because he thinks it'll change _it_ , but because it might change _him_ – keep him from becoming some scary thing. Sam made him swear to kill him if he has to. 

He won't have to. But the thought scares him anyway. 

And it shouldn't, not right now. They're just cruising, on their way to Texas for what might be a job (really huge things keep disappearing and all their owners have got some weird burns, but no one's dying and if it's really supernatural it's the best kind of job they get), with no real rush and no real problems. No leads on Ava either, but it's been so long they've stopped expecting any. 

"Oh man, it's your _birthday_ ," Sam says suddenly. "Dean, I'm sorry, I just didn't think."

Dean shrugs. "It's okay, Sammy. I don't mind."

"But you should mind. You always mind." Sam reaches into the back seat for his duffle and digs through it; Dean perks up a little.

"What, you got me something?"

"Uh... not exactly." He pulls out a bunch of colourful flyers, mostly crumpled, including one that says _World's Largest Six Pack_.

"Dude, are those tourist traps?"

Sam grins sheepishly, "Yeah, but some of them sounded fun. But I picked them up in Wisconsin, so..."

So, not going back there for a while. Henriksen's probably still staking out the borders. Dean tries not to frown. Sam catches it anyway, of course. 

"We could go see a movie again," he says. "There's got to be something good on. That was always fun."

"FBI might catch our mugs from a security camera. No go, Sam."

"Yeah, I guess. Think we can sneak into a game? Minor leagues don't have as much security." 

Dean shrugs. "Maybe." He thinks about it for a minute – it's possible, they could probably swing it, but unless there's someone really good playing it's not going to be worth it – and then in the corner of his eye he sees Sam wincing, rubbing his forehead hard and squeezing his eyes shut, and Dean feels himself jump into high alert. "Sammy? Another vision? Come on, Sam, talk to me–"

"Not a vision," says Sam, and Dean shouldn't be this relieved. It's nothing to worry about, right? Sam reaches for a bottle of water. "Just a headache. Can we turn the air-con on?"

He does, and for the next few minutes he just listens to the hum of the engine and the soothing rattle of Legos tumbling in the vents.

Nothing to worry about. Right.

 

_1993_

Dean is fourteen. He knows Dad isn't going to make it back for his birthday this year and he's okay with that. Dad's missed so many birthdays and Christmases and everything that it really doesn't matter anymore. 

He and Sam have a fun time. They watch cartoons on the motel TV, buy cake and pie for breakfast, go have omelettes at a diner when they need real food, watch _Aladdin_ at the mall and go back to the TV to yell at or cheer on the football teams that are playing tonight. They pick different sides just because it's more fun, and they have a great time. 

When Dad does turn up at the last second, exhausted from driving all day, the first thing Dean says is, "But you don't care about birthdays anymore."

They don't exactly fight, but within half an hour Dad orders them to go to bed, and the Yellowstone Park t-shirt that's already a bit small for Dean never makes it out of John's bag.

 

_2004_

Dean is twenty-five.

"Dammit, Sammy, pick up!"

He probably shouldn't be calling.

_Ring... ring... ring..._

He is, anyway, for the third time.

" _Hi, this is Sam. Sorry I can't pick up right now_ –"

Dean slams the phone onto the table, which doesn't turn it off, and turning it over and fumbling around for that one smooth little button pisses him off even more. 

He finally finds it and orders another beer. 

Five minutes later he tries again. 

_Ring... ring...ri_ – "Hello?"

That is not Sam's voice. "Hello? Who's this?"

"Who's _this_?" the person challenges, and it's a girl's voice. On Sam's phone. And there's water running in the background, like a sink - or a shower. Despite himself, Dean grins. 

"This would be Sam's cooler and awesomer and _much_ -better-looking older brother. Who might I be having the pleasure of–?"

"Dean, what the _hell_?" Sam hisses from right up close to the mouthpiece, and Dean's disappointed that the girl probably didn't hear most of what he said before Sam grabbed it. There's a crackle and the loud _crackle-thump_ of someone muffling the mic and then he hears, "Just my brother. I'm coming."

Dean knocks back some beer and sits back in his booth. "So little Sammy's finally got himself a girl," he teases when Sam comes back on the line. "Way to go, man. Is she hot?"

"It's not like that," says Sam, and he must have gone into another room because a door closes and the sound of the running water disappears. 

"Bet you'd like it to be, wouldn't you?"

"What do you _want_ , Dean?"

Dean's smile vanishes. "Just thought my little _brother_ might be up for some friendly conversation," he snaps. "That so wrong?"

"No, I just... I'm kinda busy right now."

"What, you can't spare five minutes to talk to me?"

"Actually, no. We've got plans. Jess is waiting."

"Knew it."

"A _bunch_ of us– Just– Hang on." He muffles the mic again and Dean strains to hear anything. A door opens and someone throws keys down, Sam says, "in the kitchen" and "just a sec, Brady", and a third voice says something about " _lettuce_ , ugh", and Sam's voice gets clearer again as he says, "It's good for you, man." 

Dean frowns. "You seriously trying to infect more people with your rabbit food? Because dude, that is _not_ the way to make friends."

"Dean..." Okay, Sam's getting pissed. He's got the so-pissed-off-I-am-such-a-martyr voice on. He sighs. "Look, do you want me to say 'happy birthday'? Happy birthday, Dean, really. I hope you're having a great time, but I'm _busy_."

"Yeah, with your snotty Stanford friends. Too good for us now, aren't you?"

" _Dean_ –"

"Bet you don't even tell them about us, do you?"

The moment of silence on the other end is damning. "Look, I–"

"Fuck you, Sam; we're family. You're never going to be one of them; you're not _normal_ –"

" _Shut. Up_."

Sam's voice has gone icy. For half a second Dean thinks yeah, he might've gone too far–

"Don't call again, Dean, not ever."

 _Click_. 

Dean throws the phone across the room.

 

_2012_

Dean is thirty-three. He's just rescued half a dozen virgins from a dragon and Sam is back to normal, re-souled and sane and _alive_ , and not even pushing to know about the year-plus he can't remember. It's a huge relief. They still know jack-all about this 'Mother' but Crowley's dead and off their backs and right now life is pretty good. He's not even mad at Cas anymore. 

"It's not his fault, you know," Sam had said earlier. "I tricked him. Pretended you'd told me what happened."

Dean snorted. "Figures. Didn't doubt you for a second, did he?"

"Nope." Sam shrugged. "Guess there's something about angels that makes them really gullible."

"Or maybe it's just him."

So now, as Dean grabs his stuff on his way out to the bar, he's thinking, why not take Cas along? He never did get very far with that hooker the last time Dean took him out, and if he's honest about it Dean would love another chance to laugh his ass off like that. So, he prays. Eyes closed and everything.

"Hey, Cas. Don't know if you're busy right now, but, uh... it's my birthday, and me and Sam are going to get a couple of drinks, and if you're not too busy with your war and everything, maybe you wanna join us?"

From _right behind his ear_ Cas says, "You would like me to imbibe alcohol with you tonight?" 

Someday, he's not going to jump every time that happens. Maybe just every second time. 

Dean turns around and finds himself almost nose-to-nose with the angel. Cas is looking as blank as always, except for a tiny bit of what might be happiness. Or hope. He goes for a casual shrug. "Sure. How 'bout it? Sam'll meet us there."

Castiel tilts his head sideways a bit. "I do not understand why the anniversary of one's birth is considered reason to celebrate. Surely the date of conception is more significant."

"Yeah, but that means thinking stuff about my parents that I _really_ do not want to think. Besides, mostly no one knows what day it was anyway."

They're still standing very close. Dean doesn't mind. Cas seems to be mulling it over. 

"Come on, man, it'll be fun. You're my friend, I want you there."

Cas smiles at that, a flash of open pleasure, but-

"Will there be prostitutes?" he asks, and he – the guy who's stoically facing down an angelic civil war – looks absolutely terrified. Like a shivering puppy. Dean laughs and shakes his head, shrugging on his coat.

"I won't make you go with them, Cas. Unless you want to," he adds.

"I do not," Castiel says solemnly. "But I would like to drink with you."

Dean slings an arm around his shoulders and leads the way, and hours later, when they're all three leaning on each other in a bar booth and Cas is trying to sing, he thinks they should do this more often.

 

_1983_

Dean is four and it's been a busy day. Mary has been on her feet the whole time, and between baking a cake this morning and then hosting the party for his little friends, all with a six-month belly giving her a killer backache, she's exhausted. John tried to get the afternoon off work to help but the business is new and it was just never going to happen. He's making up for it now, bringing her tea and pillows and enlisting Dean to help 'secretly' make her favourite apple pie, and she can hear them laughing through the kitchen wall. It's sweet and happy and should be a perfect evening with her growing family.

But she's worried. For ten years she's silently watched May second of 1983 draw closer, and now she's in no shape to fight off so much as a lost spirit, let alone a powerful demon. She decided years ago to make sure none of her family are at home that day – the yellow-eyed demon is more than welcome to walk into an empty house – but she's still worried. Even peeking at John and Dean through the kitchen door, covered in flour dust as they make every mistake in the book and have so much fun doing it, isn't enough to quell the cold fear and doubt and regret. If anything happens to this family, it'll be her fault. She rubs her belly anxiously.

Later, after they've eaten the wonderful pie and leftover cake, she holds her arms out to Dean and he comes to cuddle up next to her. When he kisses her stomach and says, "Goodnight, baby brother-or-sister," she smiles and hugs him tight, and calls him her little angel.

 

_2010_

Dean is thirty-one. The Apocalypse is coming, Michael won't take "up yours" for an answer and he's just come back from watching his parents get their memories wiped, along with any hope of preventing all this in the first place. 

He sees the date but ignores it. He's got more important things to think about.

 

_2002_

Dean is twenty-three and he's having an _awesome_ birthday. Not because they're doing anything special (by now this flick-and-a-burger thing is a habit they only skip if there's a job, and they usually make it up another day anyway) but because everything just seems to be going _right_ today. Sam's been going out of his way to pick Dean's favourite kinds of everything – food, drinks, bars – even when he hates them and normally would flat-out refuse.

Except the movie, but that's the fun of it. The tickets Sam got him were for a fantasy movie made from books he'd never heard of, and fantasy's not usually Dean's thing (yeah, ha, laugh it up, ghosts are real), but Sam talked him into it, saying it'd at least be good for laughs. And oh, it _was_.

"That sissy _hair_ , did'you see that?" Dean snickers, tossing back another shot and coming this close to giggling as he ever manages. Sam toasts him before matching and signalling to the barman.

"'Course I saw it. Who could miss it?"

"Man, could you _get_ any girlier? Blond and _braided_? I swear, no dude could ever live that down, not even an actor. Tell me it's a chick."

"Sorry, Dean – definitely a guy."

"Aw, not even in the next movie? Tell me she's a princess in disguise or something. Kickass women rock."

Sam laughs. "You read too many comic books. This is _literature_."

"Porn flick fodder's what it is. Seriously – _Legolas_? And did you hear those girls calling him _Leggy_? Man, he is screwed. Hey, thanks," he says to the barman, and slides a new drink over to his brother – Sam'd picked something lighter this time but it's still way more expensive than their normal fare. They both take a pull. _Ahhh_. Good stuff. Dean shakes his head. "Tell me there isn't some poor bastard going around in a ponytail until they finish making the next one."

"Pretty sure it's a wig, actually," says Sam. "Too bad."

Dean's eyebrows lift. "You actually _like_ that hair? On a _dude_?"

"Not _his_ hair, man," says Sam, rolling his eyes. "Mine. Been thinking of growing it."

"Ha!" Dean wobbles a bit and plops onto the barstool. Man, this is a great night. "Long hair's too easy to grab, Sammy. Reason why army haircuts are short. You don't want something taking you down in hand-to-hand, do you?"

Sam shrugs awkwardly, suddenly looking nowhere but into his drink. "Where d'you want to go next?" he asks. Dean shrugs, rolling his arms out wide. 

"Great right here," he grins. "Hey, look, Stella's on stage again."

The blonde dancer Dean had flirted with earlier spots them and gives a big wink, and Dean sends back an even bigger, cheesier one. Sam shakes his head but smiles. "So you're having a good birthday, then?"

"Hell yeah! This is the _life_ , Sam. We've got it so good."

Sam's smile becomes fixed, but Dean doesn't notice. "The family business," he agrees. "And we'll always be family – you know that, right Dean?"

"Duh, Sam."

Later, when Stella's on Dean's lap and angling for tips for her 'law degree', she asks what the boys are studying. Dean laughs. "No college for us, babe. We have real jobs already."

Sam doesn't answer.

 

_1995_

Dean is sixteen.

"I can _help_!" he yells.

"You are helping," Dad says, and he closes the Impala's back door with only _one_ bag of clothes on the seat. "If I don't know what can kill a rawhead by the time I get to Chicago, a lot more kids are going to die. We don't have time to drive and _then_ go to the library."

Dean sulks, folding his arms and standing in Dad's way. "Why can't Sammy do it?"

Dad walks around him. "They won't let Sam near books that rare. He's too young. Dress up smart, use the junior detective ID and call me at eight o'clock." He slides into the driver's seat and shuts the door. Dean is still scowling.

"Fine," he says, and turns to stalk off. 

"Dean," Dad says, and Dean turns back around automatically. Dad's looking... sorry. "Look, I know you want to hunt. You're working really hard. But if I don't know how to kill this, I don't know how to keep you safe either." 

They lock eyes for a moment, then Dean shrugs and walks off, kicking stones as he goes. "Yeah, whatever."

John lets him go.

 

_2013_

Dean is thirty-four. He and Sam and Bobby are camping in some forest way far away from any other people (or Wi-Fi, Sam's been complaining), with sleeping bags and a fire and everything, and it'd be fun if they were doing it by choice and not because Dickface has made even the crappiest motel too dangerous to crash in.

But it's not so bad. They're safe for now, and Bobby's cooler is full of beer. He's better at cooking over an open fire than either of the boys no matter how many times he tries to teach them ("What am I, your Boy Scout leader?"), but they manage not to burn the patties and Sam doesn't shove too much green stuff on the burger buns before handing them out so Dean thinks it's really a pretty good meal. He's in charge of the ketchup, of course. 

Bobby's the one who says Dean should get dibs on the last burger, because Bobby never forgets their birthdays. He's awesome like that. And it's a good burger. 

Without TV or a job to research, there's really not much to do once the food's all eaten and cleaned up, and since none of them have any better ideas they end up telling stories about the weirdest jobs they've done. 

"There was this shifter who loved classic horror movies," Sam says. "Played Dracula, Wolfman, the Mummy, everything."

Bobby snorts and shakes his head. "Some of them are just as crazy as humans. Try this – a witch in Nebraska was trying to raise her dead cat and ended up animating every corpse in the animal cemetery."

"Damn stupid of her," says Dean. "But not really weird, Bobby."

"There was a giraffe in there. City zoo was nearby."

The boys laugh. "That must've been fun to get a headshot on," says Dean, snickering. "Okay, here's a better one – a racist truck down in Missouri."

Bobby thinks about it for a second. "Haunted object? How the hell'd you torch that?"

Sam grins as Dean points to him and says, "Genius here got it to chase me onto holy ground."

"Smart." Bobby nods approvingly. "Wish more people thought things through like that. Rufus called me up to Montana once to track down what he thought was a Black Dog. Just one, mind. 'Jus' a quick job, Bobby'," he imitates.

"What'd it turn out to be?" asks Sam.

"Pack of skinwalkers."

"Oo," Sam says as they both wince, and Dean pokes the fire with a stick (not because it needs it, just because he can). "One time Dean and I were in LA, at this movie studio where the writer put real Enochian necromancy spells into the script – pretty much made it into a how-to textbook. Raised a bunch of angry spirits."

"Idjit," says Bobby, shaking his head, and he gets up to dig around in the cooler. "Want another?"

"Sure."

He passes them round. "Back in '94 I ganked a rakshasa that was hiding out in a ballet troupe and snacking on the other dancers. Turned out it _really_ wanted to be the prima donna. Wouldn't give up the tutu."

Dean makes a funny noise as he tries to laugh and swallow his beer at the same time. It doesn't really work, so he just swallows. "Man, that's not even _close_ to our weirdest ever. Try a giant talking teddy bear."

"What about when all those fairytales got acted out in that town?" says Sam. "You should've seen it, Bobby – the Three Little Pigs, Cinderella, the works."

"Not weirder than Paris Hilton going at us with an axe."

"Or getting stuck in TV shows."

"Or when we _were_ a TV show," says Dean, and Sam opens his mouth, closes it, and nods.

"Yeah, that's probably the weirdest."

Bobby just shakes his head. "You two..." he mutters, and that really does just about cover it.

Eventually they run out and wind down, toast to Dean with the last of their bottles and roll their sleeping bags out around the fire. They have the obligatory fight over whose feet smell worse and why your shoes have to stay near _your_ head, Sam, not your feet, then lie there quietly for a while just watching the stars. In the blackness of the woods they are so bright, and Dean smiles a bit, breathing in the cool fresh air without wishing for a stale motel room. It's peaceful, and slow. They have time here, and one by one they drift off into a warm, lazy sleep.

Bobby will be dead in a week.

 

_1981_

Dean is two. Mommy and Daddy are giving him lots of presents because today is a very special day for him, and he doesn't really get why but he loves the soft fluffy brown teddy they give him and carries it around all day. Daddy says Teddy can be his new best friend and Mommy says Teddy will protect him from bad dreams.

Dean plays with Teddy all morning. Suddenly there's other grownups all around with kids his age that he doesn't know. He's not shy, but he doesn't understand until Daddy says they all live on this street and they've come to say hello to their new neighbours – Dean and him and Mommy, he explains. Dean's still not very sure about all this but nods and promises he'll play nice with them.

Mommy's sitting in the yard in a circle of grownup ladies, and she introduces little Sarah and James and Allen and Dean sort of likes them, but they don't say much and keep playing with a box of toys that Mommy was carrying earlier and they're _Dean's_ toys... but he has Teddy now and he promised Daddy he would share. He can share. Then he sees another boy who has a teddy too, and they look just the same only his is black and Dean's is brown, but Mark says they must be brothers and Dean likes that, so he and Mark decide to be brothers too. Five minutes later they're running from fence to fence with their teddies under their arms and determined to catch each other. Daddy is smiling at them and Dean sees him kiss Mommy's cheek. 

Later on Mommy calls Dean and Mark and tells them to come inside, and there's a big cake with candles on it that Dean can't touch but he can blow at, but not until everyone sings. It's loud but they're all smiling at him, and they cheer when he blows out the flames. 

The cake is yummy and Dean even gets a second slice, just because it's his special day. He has to say goodbye to Mark and everyone else after that, but Mommy promises they can play together again soon. When the house is quiet Dean cuddles up with Daddy on the couch, and when they carry him to bed his arms are curled tight and protectively around Teddy.

 

_2015_

Dean is thirty-six. He's LARPing. Or, he's pretending to, but the whole thing's about walking around pretending to be someone you're not, so it's really the same thing.

This is _fun_. He never got to do anything like it as a kid – he's never dressed up in chainmail and fake leather and wielded a sword in defence of a pretend queen as her pretend knight (fine, manservant. _Not_ a handmaiden, Charlie). He plays it cool around Sam, but he loves it.

The job is an easy one, in the end. Charlie stabs the magic book and he knocks out the bad guy, and the fairy does all the clean-up. Sam's a bit winded from his cage match with the suit of armour, but he's okay. 

It's just a good day. He's done his job, done it well, and saved people. He's with his brother, they're both safe and sane, and they're not fighting. He's been _playing_ , having fun, and for once the world isn't coming to an end. 

He's happy.

 

Tomorrow Dean will get to lead troops into battle wearing a wig and quoting _Braveheart_. After that he and Sam and Charlie will hit the bars and talk movies over drinks and Sam will steal his fries. He and Charlie will try to pick up girls but get too caught up in arguing about whether the Hulk could take out Darth Vader ("C'mon, Vader's got the Force." "The Hulk gave _Thor_ a run for his money." "What would happen if Vader fought Thor?" "Ooo...") but Dean won't care. The only thing that could make his day better is if Cas turns up, and he will, eventually. 

And after that? He doesn't know what's going to happen. 

But he's going to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> A few details: 
> 
> 1984: The online version of [John's Journal](http://www.supernaturalwiki.com/index.php?title=The_Journal_\(diary_entries\)) says they moved out of Lawrence before January - but I'm ignoring that because it's not on-screen canon and I wanted to stick with what I had. Sorry.
> 
> 1991: There really is such a thing as marshmallow rocket launchers! sort of. [This](http://www.thinkgeek.com/product/7b54/) is called a "Marshmallow Blaster". I want one! Credit to Trojie for finding it. 
> 
> 1989: The movie they watch at Bobby's is _[Labyrinth](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0091369/?ref_=sr_2)_.
> 
> 1980: In 3x02, when Sam is calling around trying to track down Mary's friends and relatives, he asks about a Robert Campbell and an Ed Campbell. How they're actually related to Mary isn't said, but I figure uncle isn't unlikely. Maybe they were both her uncles.
> 
> 1988: I didn't manage to make it very clear, but what John's remembering is flashes of what happened in 1978, when the boys went back in _The Song Remains The Same_ and Michael wiped his memories. In my headcacnon, that wipe wasn't perfect and John gets odd feeling he'll never be able to place, which the song triggered.  
>  The song, by the way, was Led Zeppelin's _Ramble On_.
> 
> All the films mentioned _should_ still have been in most American theatres in the end of January of those years.


End file.
